UPDATE: The winner is…Jennifer Todd!
*~*~*

It’s Saturday! I’m catching up on email and administrivia! I finished and uploaded Preacher a couple of days ago. I can’t wait for you to read it! The book releases on Tuesday, January 19th! I hope you already have it pre-ordered. 🙂

In the meantime, let’s have some fun!

Puzzle-Contest

For a chance to win a download of any of my currently available Montana Bounty Hunters, tell me what awaits her at the bottom! Have fun with this challenge!

I loved writing my Montana Bounty Hunters series, and I’m really enjoying “meeting” the hunters and townsfolk in my new spinoff series, Montana Bounty Hunters: Dead Horse, Montana. The stories are all fun. The heroes are hot and very physically capable (even Brian, folks!). The heroines are all strong, smart, and sassy. And their adventures are often so dang funny. I love getting to “live” inside this world while I write, and it’s very, very gratifying that so many of you love these stories, too. It’s a good thing because I’ll be writing them for a long time.

Book #2 of the series, Preacher, releases on January 19th! I’m still putting the finishing touches on the book. Preacher and Laura have been so much fun to write. And yes, they fall for each other really fast. Write what you know is what they tell authors to do, and since, in my life, I only ever fell in love really, really fast, I write from a place of knowing what that’s like. No long buildup from friendship to happy ever after. No. Not for me. It’s insta-lust until one or the other realizes they really “like” being with that other person. Plus, dangerous situations can force people to have to learn to trust each other quickly. Et  voilà! Love happens.

I’ve included the opening of the story here for you to enjoy, just so you can meet more of the hunters in this series and get a taste for the kind of job they do. There are mentions of the cable TV show the original bounty hunters cast do and “Bounty Hunter Barbie” who is Lacey Jones and a fan favorite from the original series, too. Lacey and her man Dagger are in Dead Horse for a while until Cage (the hero from the first book) staffs up his office. I swear you don’t have to read the other books to figure out who’s who!

Buckle up—and pre-order your copy now! The book will be available only on Amazon, at first, and it’ll be FREE in KU. Print will come shortly afterward.

Preacher

An ex-Delta Force soldier, now Montana Bounty Hunter, finds himself bemused as he slips naturally into protector-mode when a small-town dessert chef is threatened by mysterious attacks.

Pre-order your copy now!

From the opening of Preacher…

“Preacher, got my eyes on the back door.”

Dylan “Preacher” Priestley eyed the ground between his position, hiding behind a tree in a neighboring yard, and the front door of the property they currently surveilled. Twenty feet tops. Marti, his partner on this takedown, had already circled the house while he’d stood watch, sliding along the wood siding and popping up to peer into windows. According to her, there were three men inside playing poker around the kitchen table. One of them was their target, Jasper Quigley.

“Cage is on his way here,” Preacher said softly. “There will only be the three of us. Dagger and Lacey are still making their way back from Anaconda.” Jasper’s meek-looking mama had sent Dagger and his girlfriend on a wild-goose chase, telling them Jasper had holed up there.

Yeah, Jasper was probably feeling pretty smug right about now. He’d given them the slip twice now. Once, when a bartender in Anaconda, whom they’d promised money for a tip, had let them know he was playing cards in an illegal game in the backroom. The second they’d crashed through the door, the skinny fucker had bailed out a window and was on his bike and gone before Cage, who’d been watching the back door, could manage to get around the side of the establishment.

The second time he’d escaped had been when he’d dropped by his best friend’s house for a shower and a resupply before heading back out into the woods in Gallatin National Forest. A neighbor they’d also offered to reward for information regarding his whereabouts had called to let them know when Jasper had just rolled in. By the time they’d mustered the team, Jasper had been long gone, and according to his buddy, he was camped out in the woods where they’d never find him.

With over 2,800 square miles of territory to search in Gallatin, they’d decided to set up cameras to watch all the likely places he might return to…his mom’s, his best friend’s, his girlfriend’s. That way they wouldn’t have to rely on anyone else. And since Anaconda, Jasper’s stomping grounds, wasn’t far from Dead Horse, they could be there the second their tech guru and general flunky, Fredericka “Fig” Newton, let them know.

She’d called an hour ago, having spied a man on a bike arriving after dusk at Jasper’s best friend’s house.

While they hadn’t been certain the man was Jasper, it had been over a week since the twice-convicted felon had come in for a resupply, and the weather had cooled considerably. So, they took the chance since there were only days to go before the bounty ran out.

Footsteps crunched in the dried leaves behind him. Preacher tensed and glanced behind him, just making out a large, burly shadow moving toward him.

His boss, Cage Morgan, lifted his chin when he got closer. “What do we have?”

“Marti’s already scoped out the place. Three men are in the kitchen playing poker. Jasper’s one of them. She sliced one of Jasper’s tires while she was at it to make sure we don’t have the same issue we had in Anaconda.”

“Knew I liked that girl.”

In his ear, he heard a soft grunt coming from Marti.

Preacher’s lips twitched. After working with her for two weeks, he was certain “the girl” had the personality of an old wooden post. “It’s a shotgun house. Going in the front, kitchen’s right past the living room on the right.”

“They armed?”

“One of them is wearing a shoulder holster. Since they were all seated, she couldn’t see what the other two are packing.” Preacher dug into a pouch on his web belt and pulled out an extra earpiece which he handed to Cage.

Cage took a moment to flick it on and insert it in his ear. “You hear me, Marti?”

“Yeah, boss.”

“Got a plan, Preach?”

Preacher shrugged. “Break down the door and kick some ass…?”

“Sounds good to me,” Marti said in his ear.

Cage grimaced. “Let’s try a little more finesse. I don’t like that we can’t be sure whether they’re going to draw weapons.” He let out a sigh. “Hey, Marti? Think you can be our Lacey tonight?”

“I wish like hell one of you two had boobs,” she muttered.

Preacher chuckled, following Cage’s thread and Marti’s disgust.

“I’m stripping,” she growled.

Cage patted his shoulder. “You get around to the back. She’s going in the front. When she’s had a chance to suss out whether they’re all armed, she’ll let us know.”

“What am I supposed to say?” Marti groused. “Hey, is that a gun in your pants or are you just glad to see me?”

Preacher grinned in the shadows. Marti’s flat tone made the snarky comment all that much funnier.

“Yeah, like that,” Cage said, his smile gleaming.

“Okay. Stashed my shit,” she said.

Preacher gave Cage a thumbs up then made his way from the tree line to the corner of the house, just in time to see Marti crouch low and edge her way along the side of the house before straightening beside the porch. It looked like she’d taken a knife to her T-shirt to cut off the arms and most of the neckline, then she’d tucked the tight shirt into her black cargo pants. Her hair was loose and fell in fluffy waves around her shoulders; her lips were glossy and red. Until the moment she stood beneath the porch light, he hadn’t realized she was actually kind of cute.

He kept moving until he was behind the house and stood in the shadowy space beside the wooden back steps.

“Here goes,” Marti muttered. “Gawd, I can’t believe I’m letting you pimp me out.”

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Cage whispered.

Preacher listened as she knocked on the door.

After what felt like forever, the front door creaked open a crack, and then made a longer creaking noise as it widened. “Can I do something for you?”

“Ooh, what a big gun you have! Wow, are you some kind of cop or something?” Marti asked, sounding like a bad actress in a porn movie with her little girl tone and slight lisp.

“Or something,” the man said, his slithery tone telling Preacher that the man liked what he saw.

“Um, I was wondering…”

Preacher imagined her twisting her hair around a finger.

“Do you have a phone I could use? My date left me on the side of the road, and my phone’s still in his damn car.”

“Now, sweetheart, that’s no way for a man to treat a pretty little thing like you.”

Pretty little thing? While just medium height, Marti had an athlete’s build.

“You really think so?”

Preacher shook his head, thinking he’d underestimated his partner’s feminine powers. She was flirting with the thug, and he was eating it up.

“Why don’t you come inside? I have a phone. You thirsty? Need a drink?”

“What do you have?”

The sound of footsteps followed.

“Lookie, boys, at what showed up on my doorstep.”

Chairs scraped.

“That such a good idea?” one male voice asked.

“No big deal,” Marti’s host said. “She needs a drink.”

“And a phone,” she said, in a soft voice.

“Gotta be thirsty. How far did you have to walk?”

“Damn near a quarter mile,” Marti said. “In the dark. I was so happy to see your porchlight on. I was getting worried.”

“Well, don’t you worry about a thing now. Jasper, get her the chair out of my bedroom. Better yet, give her yours. You go fetch the other for yourself.”

Chairs scraped again, likely from the two remaining men and Marti seating themselves.

“Such a gentleman,” Marti crooned.

“Not too much o’ one.” The horse’s ass who was chatting her up laughed like a hyena at his own joke.

Footsteps clomped closer. Something thudded on the floor. “She’s sitting in front of my cards.”

“Jasper, we’ll get back to the game,” Horse’s Ass said.

“Well, you all have some fine hardware there,” Marti murmured. “Don’t think I’ve seen so many guns since my daddy took me to church in Whitefish.”

“Need to know how many,” Preacher whispered.

“You spend much time in Whitefish?” Horse’s Ass asked.

“My daddy used to go there a lot, until Mr. Whitcomb went and got himself arrested.”

“You knew Barney Whitcomb?” Jasper said.

“I met him a time or two. Seemed like a nice man. Can’t believe they’re trying him for kidnapping and assault. Daddy said the guy he hurt probably deserved it.”

“He did, indeed,” Jasper said. “I was supposed to be there the night the FBI and ATF took him off.”

“Really? Well, aren’t you lucky? You coulda been sitting in jail with him.”

“Oh, I’m lucky all right. Had some bounty hunters after my ass a while back. Dumbasses never could catch me.”

“Seriously? Bounty hunters? Like Dog the Bounty Hunter?”

Preacher rolled his eyes.

“More like those fake bounty hunters on Bounty Hunters of the Northwest.”

“Do you really think they’re fake?” Marti asked, her voice tightening a tad. “They all look like they can take care of business.”

A laugh sounded. “Come on, you ever seen Bounty Hunter Barbie? She’s got her own action figure now. It’s all fake. Besides, if they were really good at their jobs, don’t you think they’d already have caught my ass?”

Marti’s laugh tinkled.

Preacher shook his head. Hell, he’d never heard her laugh before. And it tinkled.

After a pause, Marti said, “Oh, that’s good. I was really, really thirsty.”

“Got more where that came from,” Horse’s Ass said, sounding like he was talking into her ear.

“Bet you do,” Marti said under her breath, her flat voice sounding almost like her old self. “My daddy bought me a little Remington pocket pistol to carry in my purse. Fits my hand just right.”

“What are you doing?” Cage whispered in warning.

“Mmm. I just love the way a gun feels in my hand when I squeeze off a round.”

“That the only thing you like to squeeze off?” Horse’s Ass whispered.

“I swear I get off on the feel of steel in my palm.”

“Well, you should feel this one,” another male said.

“That one’s so big,” Marti said, sounding a little breathless. “Not sure my little ole fingers can get all the way around it. Ooh, but I like how that feels.”

Cage chuckled. “Get ready, Preacher. Our little missy is gonna get all the guns.”

“If she doesn’t get raped first,” Preacher bit out.

“Try mine,” Jasper said as Preacher climbed the steps and stood in front of the back door.

“Well, let me see. I’m not sure which I like better. That first one was heavy and so wide it gave me shivers. This one’s not so heavy, but it’s looong.” She giggled. “Let me feel yours.”

Horse’s Ass said, “Shoulda tried mine first. It’s the best.”

“Well, now, I have all three. However, do I choose?”

“Now!” Cage said.

Preacher raised his foot and kicked open the back door. The sound of more splintering wood echoed in his ears.

Shouts sounded from inside.

“Give me my gun!”

Clattering sounded and then a loud thud.

Preacher ran through a mud room and down a short dark corridor.

“Babe, why’d you toss the table?”

“Bitch! You set us up!”

When he stood in the kitchen doorway it was to see Marti standing over the men, a long-barreled revolver in her hand.

“Not so fake now, huh, Jasper?”

This giveaway has closed!
*~*~*

I have several books that I’ve had out on a book giveaway site for a while now. I’m getting ready to close those giveaways out—TOMORROW.

So, if you don’t already have these stories, go download them now!
Just click on the covers of the stories you want!

Novel/Novellas

Short Stories

I love writing my bounty hunter stories! They’re so much fun—action, humor, stupid criminals, danger, and sexy times! The second book in my spinoff series of Montana Bounty Hunters centers around a man named Preacher. The story is set to release in January, but I’m hoping to finish it sooner so it will come out before the end of December. He’s new to the team and, in the opening scene, we see him and his new partner Marti taking down a skip. For this spin-off series set in Dead Horse, Montana, I’m introducing the town folk. We already met the surly waitress, Nadine, in Cage‘s story. She’ll play a bigger role in future stories. In Preacher’s book, you’ll meet more of the town’s lively characters as well as the owner of the donut shop. Preacher is already attracted to her but hasn’t made a move. You’ll see why in this snippet. Enjoy!

Preorder your copy here!

Two days later, Preacher got a text as he was climbing into his black Suburban, ready to head into work.

Fig: It’s your turn to bring the donuts. Get them from Deadly Delights.

Preacher checked his watch. He had time.

How many? And what?

Fig: Two dozen kolaches. Two dozen mixed. Don’t drag ass.

Ooh, bossy. Who pissed on your cornflakes?

Fig: HaHa. Got a lot to go over.

Preacher’s mood lightened. He didn’t mind donut duty, not when the woman behind the counter at Deadly Delights was one very pretty blonde who wore confectionary sugar like most women wore powder on their noses. Whenever he saw a light dusting on her cheek, he had the urge to lean over the counter and lick it. Likely every male in the vicinity had the same urge.

Asking her out on a date had been on his mind for a while. He’d never noticed a ring on her finger and hadn’t seen her around town with any guys, so he thought maybe he should. After all, he’d been here a little while and needed to make some friends. Maybe, he could talk her into showing him around.

He grimaced. That might not be the best line. It would be the world’s shortest date. Dead Horse was a tiny town. A guided tour would take all of ten minutes.

Deadly Delights was on Main Street, which was on his route anyway with the Dead Horse Motel on the opposite side of town from Montana Bounty Hunters. Preacher shook his head as he passed the businesses lined up along the strip—Dead Center Guns & Pawn, Dead as a Doornail Hardware, The Drop Dead Gorgeous Salon.

He laughed. “They certainly have a theme going.”

He pulled into an empty parking space in front of the donut shop. Inside, business was brisk. He stood in line, trying not to look as though he was checking out the shapely proprietor while he was certainly checking her out. When it was his turn at the counter, his reason for being there completely escaped him.

It was those eyes—the prettiest blue, like cornflowers or maybe bluebonnets—although why he remembered any flowers’ names when he couldn’t remember his own was a mystery. Or maybe it was her pretty light blonde hair that she always wore in a long braid. Or maybe her pale skin with that light dusting of caramel-colored freckles across the bridge of her nose. He kept his gaze above her shoulders because he’d never drag it away from her full breasts and hips…

“Did you want something?” she said, leaning over the counter, her expression becoming concerned.

You and some of that whipped cream frosting you’re wiping off your fingers…

Frozen in place, he was sure he probably looked like a complete moron. He raised his phone to read the text message from Fig then cleared his throat. “I need kolaches and donuts.”

The woman’s mouth twitched at the corners. “How many people you feeding? Just yourself?”

He felt heat begin to fill his cheeks. Dammit. He’d never get her to go out with him if he couldn’t untwist his tongue. “Two dozen of each. And mixed… Um, mixed donuts, that is.”

She nodded and pulled four pink boxes from beneath the counter, unfolding them then laying down tissue paper or some such in the bottoms of the containers to line them.

She quickly filled his order then stacked the boxes neatly beside the cash register.

He already had his credit card out, not wanting to extend the conversation because he’d likely make a bigger fool out of himself if he did. Then he noticed the light coating of something white on her collarbone. It looked like the glazing on the donuts she’d put into the box. His mouth watered.

She rang up the order and handed him back his card. “Would you like a cup of coffee to take with you, sir?”

“Preacher,” he blurted.

She shook her head. “Pardon me?”

“Not sir. Preacher.”

“That your first or last name?”

“It’s what I’m called.” At this point, he wished the floor would just open up and swallow him whole.

“Well, Preacher,” she said, leaning over the counter and smiling as she handed him a coffee, “you have a good day.”

He managed a nod before reaching for the boxes and the coffee and quickly exited the store. “Damn. Fuck. Shit,” he whispered under his breath as he headed to his vehicle.

Another chance missed. It would be five more days before he’d have donut duty again. He wondered if he shouldn’t practice in front of a mirror before he attempted to talk to her again, or maybe he needed a wingman or woman to help him out…

Open Contests!

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“The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity.”
~ Amelia Earhart

Tenacity

It’s November. Time to go inward, to reflect…

I embarked on this new writing career a year ago—I haven’t looked back.

Parts of this year have lasted for a couple years. Parts never began. But thankfully, parts have held onto joy, no matter what.

I am thankful for the love and support of my children, as I embark on a new career. How many hours have they spent teaching and reteaching me how to use social media, graphics programs, and my new best friend, Alexa? They’ve stuck with me. They have assisted with edits, formatting, repeating again and again, “You got this Mom. Stick with it!”

I was blessed with my first grandchild. He is the love of my life. He is just now learning how to try. He tries. He fails. He tries again. His trying is just lifting his head up during tummy time.  I root for him. It’s not lost on me how he’s helping me keep my head up, too.

Writers, for the most part, work alone. We fuss and fret over our characters, our plots, the conflict, the resolution, while staring at a computer screen or note pad, reliving the plots again and again. I train myself to a single-pointed focus, the immediate life of my characters, and I do it in solitude, but I am buttressed by a community, even when alone. This month I am giving a special thanks to my crew of other writers and friends and all the advice, support, encouragement they provide, helping me keep on.

The definition of tenacity is, “the quality or fact of continuing to exist; persistence”. Determination. This is life.

Lonely Eyes

“And I’m scared, damn it.” He placed both palms on her shoulders. “Because if I touch you….if I taste you again….if I have you, I may never be able to let you go. I’m at least ten years older. I’m jaded and tarnished. I don’t deserve someone sweet and innocent. And you sure as hell deserve better than me.”

The good man, who only saw his damaged parts couldn’t recognize the value of his kindness and character. “Don’t I get to be the judge of what I need, and what I want? Why do you get to tell me no, making the choice for both of us? We’re both consenting adults. I am an adult. I’ve been deprived of my own decisions for long enough. The life I lived was far from Sunnybrook Farm. I grew up with strippers, call girls and junkies. Not to mention the bullies and thugs, con artists and thieves who populated my upbringing.”

Get your copy here!

Read the entire series…

Click to order all three!

About Bernadette Jones

Romantic Suspense Writer, Never Give Up-er,
First Wives Club-er, Lifelong Dream Achiever & Mom

Bernadette Jones has been making up stories since she learned to read on her daddy’s lap. She has imagined casts of characters everywhere she’s called home: Texas, Oregon, Washington, South Dakota, Nebraska, Illinois, Massachusetts, and now New York.

Books and music filled her life as she, her dad and two brothers traveled the country. She would sit in the back seat of the car—her older brother always got to ride shotgun—listening to the current music on the radio, looking out the window and spinning a story based on a phrase she’d heard in the lyrics. As you can imagine, traveling the country, the music changed from state to state, as did the stories. To this day, she enjoys a wide variety of music and book genres.

After a career in corporate writing, she’s decided to settle down and put pen to paper doing what she loves. Living the dream in her NYC apartment with her canine companion, she’s bringing her stories and characters to life.

You can find Bernadette at:
https://www.bernadettejones.com/
https://www.bernadettejones.com/newsletters
https://www.facebook.com/BernadetteJonesAuthor/

UPDATE: Everyone’s a winner!
*~*~*

I loved writing my Uncharted SEALs series. All those rugged, alpha heroes and strong heroines. Humor. Action. All the ingredients that make stories fun for me to write, and hopefully, fun for you to read.

With Uncharted SEALs, I experimented a bit. For the first time, I did sequels with the same characters—for the simple reason I couldn’t say goodbye to them. I wanted to see inside their Happy Ever Afters. Through Her Eyes and Between a SEAL and a Hard Place share the same main characters, as do Dream of Me and Heart of a SEAL. Big Sky SEAL gave birth to my Montana Bounty Hunters, introducing Jamie and Reaper, who as a result of their work in Big Sky earned their own satellite office of MBH.

A fun theme I used in two of the stories was a cruise ship. Both Before We Kiss and Hard SEAL to Love are set on the same ship, and have the same supporting characters. You’ll meet the crusty veterans who were part of those stories in the scene below. Hope you enjoy it!

   

   

  

Click on the covers to learn more!

Contest

Win your choice of one of my Uncharted SEALs stories! There will be 3 winners! All you have to do to enter is answer me this…

POST COVID: If you could go anywhere in the world, what would be your cruise destination?

Before We Kiss

Navy SEAL, William “Wiley” Coyote, should have known his “piece of cake” assignment would go sideways in a hurry. But he’d been lured by the promise of an all-expenses-paid cruise. A nice “fluffy” assignment after the last one spent escorting freighters through pirate-infested waters in the Strait of Hormuz.

A general’s daughter, Poppy Shackleford, wasn’t some spoiled daughter of a man made famous for defeating insurgent forces. She’d endured her own tragedies—the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, and the loss of her fiancé after he’d sustained wounds in Iraq—not from the physical wounds that had claimed his two legs—he’d taken his own life. His death was why Poppy was involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helped disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances. Her mission in life is to see that no veteran of war would ever feel so alone, so hopeless he’d choose her dead fiancé’s path. Which was why, despite the current threats against her father, she was on this cruise, assessing the ship’s ability to accommodate the soldiers rather than sending a surrogate.

However, the first threat doesn’t come from terrorists with an axe to grind. Mexican banditos stop her tour bus heading toward Mayan ruins to shake down the passengers for their money and belongings. When one snaps a picture of her, he soon figures out there’s a much bigger payday. She knows she’s going to be kidnapped, but she didn’t know someone was on that same tour bus who had her back.

Wiley’s unconventional takedown of her would-be kidnappers exposes the fact her father didn’t honor her wishes to fly under the radar. And now that the cat’s out of the bag, Wiley’s made it clear he’s moving into her suite for the rest of their time at sea to keep her out of harm’s way.

Excerpt from Before We Kiss…

William “Wiley” Coyote should have known the “piece of cake” assignment his team leader, Deke Warrick, offered him would go sideways in a hurry. But he’d been lured by the promise of an all-expenses-paid cruise. A nice “fluffy” assignment after the last one spent escorting freighters through pirate-infested waters in the Strait of Hormuz. He was due a vacation, and he’d envisioned slipping into a chaise on the cruise ship’s deck while his target sunbathed nearby. Something his team leader had warned him might not be in the cards. After all, Deke’d had a similar, simple assignment when he’d been tasked with protecting a girl. And look what it had gotten his buddy. Shot at. Then married. Happily, it seemed.

Not that Wiley had marriage on his mind. No, sir. Not him. Everything he owned was stuffed into a duffle bag. He lived in hotel rooms, tents, and, now, a cruise boat cabin. No, he had nothing to offer a bride. Marriage wasn’t something in his cards. And certainly not to some celebutante who couldn’t keep her picture off multiple social media sites on a daily basis. That sort of exposure, even by association, would be deadly in his line of business.

He’d listened intently when Deke outlined his assignment, determined to keep this job all business, despite the photos that had spilled from the envelope during his initial briefing.

“Every time she steps out of her suite, the room attendant will buzz you. You keep on her tail, but not close enough she notices. Her daddy said she’d raise hell if she knew he’d hired security after she refused a special detail.” At that point, Deke had grinned. “I think he’s a little afraid of her.”

Wiley hadn’t smiled. Instead, he’d grunted. General Shackleford wasn’t any lightweight desk-jockey. He’d seen his share of action.

The ship had barely left the Port of Miami before Wiley understood. The woman never stopped moving. Or talking. Sometimes loudly, if she didn’t like what she heard. If he could have worn earplugs, possibly his first impressions of her would have been very different.

Poppy Shackleford was a pretty little thing. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, lightly tanned, curves in all the right places. And maybe five-foot-two in her espadrille sandals. He’d had a girlfriend charge two pairs to his credit card years ago, so he knew darn well what they were and how much the cork-heeled things cost. Although he could appreciate the sexy curves the three-inch heels gave her toned calves, he wasn’t risking getting any closer. So far, he’d managed to operate under the radar. He had no doubts she’d know exactly what he was there to do if she got one good look at him. Nothing escaped her attention. Not the too-steep ramps leading onto the ship when they’d embarked. Nor the undercooked steak she’d been served last night in the dining room.

He’d begun to think she was deaf because she talked so loudly, but then he’d realized her complaints were on behalf of her fellow passengers, and this cruise had been billed as senior-themed. Most of the thousand passengers on board were over seventy. The dinner conversation surrounding him last night consisted of tracking blood sugar levels as his companions pricked their fingertips and fed droplets of blood into their readers. Afterwards, their conversation drifted to the best fiber to promote healthy bowels and where the captain would store their bodies if they happened to pass during the night.

“No kidding?” Deke had said after Wiley’s status update early that morning.

Wiley’s jaw ground shut at the snickering no hand over a receiver could muffle. “The Countess cruise line’s security seems pretty tight. Someone is always nearby, although they’re better at blending in than I am.”

“You mean you didn’t pack any Hawaiian shirts?”

“Don’t own one,” he’d gritted out.

“How are you keeping from blowing your cover?”

Wiley grunted. “I haven’t shaved, and I have on my cowboy hat and boots.”

“So you’re sticking out like a sore thumb.”

“She won’t expect a security detail to blend in quite like I do.”

Deke grunted. “Just remember you have people positioned around the ship. Channel two if you need them.”

Which would be great if his assignment was actually aboard the ship. The farther into the jungle their tour bus drove, the deeper his concern grew. They were on an excursion to view Mayan ruins. Anywhere along their route would be a great place for an ambush. The two security people provided by the cruise line to accompany his target were in good shape, but he could tell neither was armed. Conventional weapons were impossible to smuggle aboard the ship, and the weapons kept under lock and key aboard the vessel wouldn’t have been permitted for this little jaunt.

And why were they out here? If he remembered right, the pyramids weren’t exactly wheelchair-friendly. But he knew Poppy was thorough, that she took her tour coordinator job seriously. No stone would be left unturned. No tour unvetted, personally, by her.

He’d read the dossier Charter Group had put together. Poppy Shackleford, daughter of Lieutenant General Randall Shackleford, wasn’t some spoiled daughter of a famous man. She’d endured her own tragedies—the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, the loss of her fiancé after he’d sustained wounds in Iraq, although not from the physical wounds that had claimed both his legs. Frank Sutton, who’d been despondent over the loss, had killed himself.

His death was why Poppy was involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helped disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances, whether supporting wounded vets with additional therapies the VA was slow or unable to provide, or seeking the latest in prosthetics and mobility devices. And the organization provided mentorship, one wounded soldier to another, to ensure no veteran of war would feel so alone, so hopeless, they’d choose Frank Sutton’s path.

Wiley understood and admired her for not simply crying then moving on, but embracing a cause that might help others. However, today he wished she wasn’t quite so determined to make it impossible for him to protect her. Not that she had a clue he was there. If she’d glanced toward the back of the air-conditioned bus, all she might have noted was one dark head amid a sea of white, gray, and blue.

The fellow seated next to him gave another narrow-eyed, flinty glance.

Wiley aimed a frown his way, hoping the old guy would mind his own business. The man was burly, surprisingly muscled for an old dude.

He leaned sideways in his seat and whispered, “Name’s Joseph Olinsky, but you can call me Joe. I’m a Marine.” He nodded toward the head of the bus where Poppy stood beside the tour guide, asking questions. “She someone important?”

Not as invisible as I thought. Wiley blinked. “No, sir. I think she’s just another passenger. A noisy one.”

Shaking his head, Joe grunted. “She has a detail. That guy with a clipboard ain’t a cruise director. I’d say he’s ex-Navy, probably a SEAL. Has a trident tattoo on his upper arm. Saw it when he was stowing her backpack into the overhead.”

Knowing there was no use convincing Joe he was just a guy on a trip to see a pyramid, Wiley gave him another look. He recognized the type—his dad had been the same steady, patriotic sort. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Maybe he did need backup, should shit go sideways. “You’re right,” he murmured. “The cruise line provided her security.”

“What about you?” his gray-haired companion asked.

“Name’s Wiley, and I was Navy.”

“A SEAL,” he said, nodding. “Can’t hide that look. Everyone else, besides her, has been taking a nap. Not you. You’ve been watching the road ahead. Expect trouble?”

“Not expecting, but prepared.”

Joe nodded. “Don’t get along as well as I used to,” he said, patting his right knee. “But I can be another set of eyes. And I do know who she is, son. She’s the daughter of that general ISIS wants taken out. They had his face and his daughter’s plastered all over Facebook faster than Homeland and the FBI could take down the pages.”

Wiley almost smiled at how in tune the old guy was. “Nothing much gets past you, does it?”

Joe lifted his chin toward two older gentlemen seated across the aisle from them.

Wiley glanced over to find both old codgers staring back.

“We were in the same division, the 3rd, during Vietnam. We’re all that’s left of our company. Try to take a trip every couple of years. Went to Nam five years back. There were eight of us then.”
Wiley nodded his understanding.

“That’s Morty,” he said, pointing at the thin one with a round belly. “The other one’s Sly.”

Sly gave him a grin that displayed unnaturally white teeth.

Wiley gave both men a nod then turned his attention back to the front of the bus.

“She know you’re tailing her?”

How had the old guys figured out he was there for Poppy? He remembered how the old men had jostled him, cutting him from the rest of the group when they’d boarded the bus. He’d thought it unintentional, but now knew they’d meant to be seated beside him. Admiring their cunning, he shook his head. “She doesn’t know. Not yet, anyway.”

“Need a better cover,” Joe said, eyeing his boots and the scruff on his chin. “Could tell folks you’re my grandson.”

Wiley chuckled. Sounded like a better plan than the one he’d started with. “Just don’t get in the way. If things go down…”

“You could use another set of eyes—between the three of us, we might just make one good pair.” Joe tilted his head toward his buddies.

This time, Wiley laughed.

Joe grinned and gave a slow nod to his companions, who settled back in their seats and now directed their attention to the job at hand—and the woman wearing the pretty blue dress at the front of the bus.

Suddenly, the bus shuddered and slowed. Cries arose from those seated near the front.

“Fat’s in the fire now,” Morty said, pointing forward.

Wiley cussed. A pickup was parked sideways in the middle of the road. He began to rise, but then he noted the four men standing in front of the truck. All dark, but with features that were clearly Mestizo. So, bandits rather than terrorists. He settled back in his seat. He’d let this play out a bit before he gave himself away. As long as no one was hurt, he’d keep his cover.

Silver Creek Series
Zebra/Kensington
Buy Link: https://amzn.to/384PthF

Do you ever pick up a book and wonder what the story behind it is, and what inspired the author to write it? I always wonder what memories a writer carries with them that come alive again through in their writing.

I believe that a writer cannot write outside of themselves. Real life experiences shape who they are and will always filter through to the story they write. These moments in time give what I term, “meat to the bones” of a story, and add richness and depth to the details that make a book shine and stand out to the reader.

When I was writing my new Silver Creek series, I tapped into my own childhood from the ages of 2 to 9. I have very vivid, keen memories of those years, and what happened during them left a lasting impact that I carry with me to this day. My hope is that the joy I hold of these years is conveyed to readers through my books.

In Book 1, Silver Creek Fire, the heroine, Lea Ryan, is a master carpenter and wood sculpture artist. To create Lea’s character, I channeled my own memories as a little girl sitting with my grandfather in his woodworking shed and superimposed his incredible artistic abilities and love of nature into my heroine. Let me elaborate further….

My grandparents were originally from the Canton, Ohio area. In 1929, with the Great Depression in full swing, they packed their daughter (my mother) and son into their Model T and headed west to California, looking for some kind of chance to start over. They eventually settled in San Diego. My grandfather had been a coal miner back in Ohio and decided to leave the underground work and become a farmer, instead.

My mother grew up in San Diego before moving to Hawaii to work as a secretary on Ford Island, Pearl Harbor. She was there during the attack in 1945 and was eventually sent home to California. During this same period, my grandfather (I called him pop), worked as a master carpenter, making beautiful, custom kitchen cabinets. He also made a good name for himself among the wealthy elite who could afford such luxuries.

From the time I was three, my grandparents babysat me during the week while my mother went to her office job. Grams used to send me out to Pop’s garage where he did all his woodworking magic. I loved being out there with him. I enjoyed going over to the small garbage cans—each one held a different type of wood—and running my small hands over the wood inside. Pop would often come over and kneel beside me, taking out a short piece of wood that he’d cut and share it with me. He would tell me that the wood was alive and urge me to smell it. Each one smelled wonderful and unique. Pop told me to look at the grain, and explained what it was and how each piece of wood varied in color, grain, and texture from the others. Pop’s work was like a wonderful mystery to me. How did he know where and how to cut a piece of lumber? But the real magic was how his cabinets were pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle and slowly took shape. I stood mesmerized day after day as little deer, birds, elk, and butterflies blossomed out of the colors of the wood. I remember smoothing my hands over warm, satiny surface which had come to life through my grandfather’s careful skill and patience.

Silver Creek Fire is out now in e-book and paperback.